


A Thousand Miles or More

by cheesetoast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Airplanes, Airports, Alternate Universe, Anxiety, Bittersweet Ending, M/M, Musician!Dean, Panic Attacks, Pilot!Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 01:07:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3190082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheesetoast/pseuds/cheesetoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester wasn't a good flyer.  Hell, some would say he was a damn terrible one.  Decent or not though, it didn't change the fact that - come hell or high (flood) water - he had to reach New York in time to make his connection to London.  Anxiety, Texas storms, and the wonderful people at American Airlines all seemed to have other plans for Dean, but he'd make it through them all if a certain dark haired airman had anything to say about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Miles or More

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the [Destiel Ficlet Christmas Challenge](http://destielficletchallenge.tumblr.com/). My prompts were candy canes and kisses. This is loosely based on the song [Flyer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p44ybweWFlo&list=ALBTKoXRg38BDGr-MwPaaNTzG3YfRhSQIo) by Nanci Griffith, but heads up... there are spoilers for this story if you listen to it first.

From a seat at the bar across from his gate, Dean Winchester frowned as he watched the word _DELAYED_ blink steadily at him on the flight information screen. The flashing was starting to piss him off and he’d never really been a fan of the color red.

Dean had landed at the Dallas/Forth Worth International Airport from SFO shaky but safe with every intention to spend his four-hour layover drinking as many beers as possible. A coping strategy he could believe in, Dean had purposefully broken up his flight time to New York to get out of the air and into a bar.  It seemed the nice people at American Airlines had other plans for him though. He had been sent on a sweeping tour of DFW’s bland, expressionless terminals, as every hour brought with it another gate change.  It seemed as if every time Dean sat down to order a drink, inevitably he caught a scratchy announcement directed at the passengers of American Airlines Flight 64 to New York.

The flight had already been delayed an hour and a half due to storms rolling over the North Texas region. Dean could accept this; hell, he could almost even understand it, having driven through these storms a time or two himself.  What was starting to wear him thin, what he was really having trouble excusing, was the endless announcements that he was again in the wrong place.  Every minute he spent impatiently riding the train to another terminal, every person standing in the middle of the moving sidewalk, because they just couldn’t get it through their tiny, jetlagged mind to stand to one side or another cost Dean a beer.  He needed those beers.  Not in a twelve-step, admit-you’ve-got-a-problem kind of way, but in a mildly-intoxicated-is-the-only-way-to-get-through-this-without-a-situation kind of way.  He knew it; the universe knew it.  Apparently American Airlines hadn’t gotten the memo.

But now as he tilted the glass to his lips, eyes still glaring daggers at the television screen, Dean watched the text shift.  The gate numbers silently and inconspicuously now displayed what could only be his final gate change.  Surely, they wouldn’t do this to him.  Surely, they would have the common sense to not have him change terminals 10 minutes before his flight was to start boarding.  It was a trick of the eye.  He had been staring at the screen too long. 

His beer held in limbo before his lips, Dean tensed for the announcement.  Deliriously, he told himself without that scratchy voice overhead, nothing would change and he could enjoy his pint in peace.  Sure enough, though, the lilting singsong of a woman paid to be perky cut through the man’s denial.

 _“Attention passengers of American Airlines Flight 64 to New York JFK.  The departure gate has been changed to D2—“_  

The staticky voice slowly faded to a dull whisper of white noise in Dean’s ears.  His forehead dropped against the rim of his glass still held in midair and he let out the breath he hadn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Well, shit.”  The man slammed his drink down on the bar, beer lapping over the edges.  Dean was officially pissed and no amount of cheery false positivity on a loudspeaker was going to sugar coat the fact that he hadn’t even had time for one single beer. Dean hefted his backpack onto his shoulder and grabbed the guitar case lying forgotten at his feet. With one last longing look back at his beer, Dean took off at a run down Terminal A.

By the time Dean hit the escalators down to the train, he was panting and clutching his side.  He had run the length of the terminal, dodging what looked to be an entire high school soccer team and nearly trampling an elderly couple looking at the flight board, in his haste.  In all honesty, his heart should not have been beating as hard as it was or his breathing so labored.  ‘ _Maybe you shouldn’t have had those extra 3 slices of pie after Christmas dinner, huh?’_ Dean’s internal monologue supplied, sounding suspiciously like his know-it-all little brother.  He ignored the voice just as thoroughly as he would have the real Sam, choosing instead to take the escalator two steps at a time and speeding through the doors of the train just before they closed.  

As the cars began to move, Dean gulped in a few breaths and tried to slow his heart rate.  Wind whipped against the glass as he focused on the uneven sound of drops splashing against the window.  Though he was definitely out of shape, Dean knew that most of his body was just reacting to his building anxiety. He could feel it ratcheting upwards and if he didn’t calm down, Dean was sure he’d have what Sam so unreservedly labeled “panic attacks”. 

 _‘Whatever you wanna friggin’ call it, it wouldn’t be happening now if Sam hadn’t butted his big, gigantic nose into my business.  ‘Inappropriate self-medication,’ my ass,’_ Dean thought to himself, his face contorting as he mimicked Sam’s voice in his head. The nosy, mothering jerk had found a bottle of Ativan in Dean’s dopp kit that morning as he was helping his big brother pack and he couldn’t just let it go.  Sam was the king of not letting it go.

“Hey, Dean, who’s Kevin?” Sam had called from the bathroom to Dean down the hall in the guestroom. Dean was trying to shove his last few flannel shirts into his backpack while ignoring Charlie’s unnecessary packing suggestions.  His ginger friend was sprawled across the guest bed, tossing unneeded advice at Dean like it was dirty laundry.

“This grad student that Benny gives bass lessons to.  Good kid. Works the soundboard at shows for me sometimes,” Dean called back distractedly, grabbing his new issue of Saga from Charlie’s greedy grasp.  He was about to tell her off for trying to steal the Christmas present she had _just_ given him the day before when the sound of pills rattling in a bottle caught his attention.

“Well, I can only guess he’s still in Chicago while you’re here in sunny California, which begs the question: Why are his meds in your stuff?  You sure don’t look like a Tran,” Sam scoffed, coming to lean against the door jam and settling a very pointed look in Dean’s direction.

“Dude, not cool. I asked you to grab my stuff, not go through it like some paranoid girlfriend,” Dean said, lunging at his brother and the bottle held tight in his hand.  Sam was too quick and Dean missed by a mile, stumbling into an armoire with a grunt.  Changing his tactic, Dean righted himself and continued, “He left them over at our apartment and I threw them in my stuff to give back to him.  Guess I forgot with all the holiday stuff going on.”

“Lying,” Charlie called over the comic she had snagged again when Dean was distracted.

“Not helping,” Dean shot back.

“Lying,” She said again with a shrug.  Dean knew there was a smirk plastered across his friend’s face just beyond those illustrated pages. Even without having to see, it irritated him.  When he turned back to Sam, Dean was faced with no response, no hidden smirk, just pursed lips and arms crossed against his broad chest.

“Okay, fine,” Dean slowly answered through gritted teeth.  He went back to shoving shirts in his bag and when he spoke again, his back was to his brother.  “Call ‘em a thank you present for putting him in touch with Benny.  Kid was looking for lessons and I happen to share an apartment with one of the best upright slap bass players in Chicago. He’s pretty high strung with school, so Kev is basically a walking pharmacy.  Felt he could part with a few.” 

“Look, Dean.  Whether or not he was willing to hand over a bottle of pills to you is beside the point.  You know you shouldn’t just be taking some random kid’s meds without knowing drug interactions or side effects or—“

“Just drop it, Sam,” Dean sighed. He didn’t need a lecture right before his flight.  Hell, what he needed was one of those little pills. 

“Besides, why would you even need these?  You don’t have anxiety or panic disorder or anything.” 

“I said, drop it,” Dean bit out quietly, grabbing his bag off the bed and shoving past his brother still leaning in the doorway. 

The sound of Charlie’s voice saying, “Danger Will Robinson” and Sam’s heavy footfalls followed Dean down the hall. Of course Sam wasn’t willing to just leave it at that.  Forget being the king of not letting it go.  He was the damn emperor. 

Suddenly, Dean turned on his brother and charged.  He got Sam around the middle, taking him to the ground with a dramatic thump. They scuffled on the carpet for a few minutes, Sam always keeping the bottle out of Dean’s reach even after taking a cheap elbow to the stomach.  Despite Dean’s best efforts, Sam still had him pinned after a few minutes. Before he had a moment to gloat though, another pair of feet stomped up the hallway. 

“What the hell do you two idiots think you’re doing?”  Both boys glanced up guiltily into the furious face of Sam’s very blonde, very pregnant new wife.

“Sorry, Jess,” Sam mumbled out, lifting himself off of Dean and helping his brother to stand.  For two grown men over six feet, they did a remarkable impression of sheepish preteens.

Pocketing the medicine bottle, Sam let the issue over the Ativan drop until Dean had a chance to say his goodbyes to both his new sister-in-law and his best friend.  It wasn’t until they were halfway to the San Francisco airport that the topic resurfaced.   With vehicular manslaughter hanging over their heads should there be another wrestling match – even for such a seasoned driver as Sam, it was hard to stay on the road held in a headlock – the brothers were actually able to talk things through.  As much as Dean didn’t want to admit, it felt nice to confess to Sam how freaked out he was about flying.  By the time they pulled up in front of the Departures curb, Sam had carefully explained a few techniques to help Dean slow his breathing when the anxiety started and one frankly hippy-dippy relaxation exercise Sam had picked up in couple’s yoga.

“Only _you_ could make couple’s yoga seem completely not sexy, Sammy,” Dean said, jumping out of Sam’s car and grabbing his bag and guitar case from the trunk.  His brother still wouldn’t hand over Kevin’s Happy Helpers, which meant Dean would be heading straight into a bar when he got through security.  In the moments before the panic kicked in though, Dean hugged his brother and reveled in the lingering contentedness he felt from a Christmas spent with the people he loved. 

“Don’t worry,” Sam said, a reassuring hand resting on Dean’s shoulder.  “You’ll be fine, man.  You’ll see.  All your flights will be totally uneventful.” 

 

 _“Exit here for gates D24 through D34.  Make sure you have all of your belongings and watch your step as you exit.”_

An infuriatingly calm robotic voice jarred Dean from his thoughts as the train pulled to a stop. Surprisingly, thinking about his brother and their interactions earlier had managed to calm him somewhat. Sam probably would have just smiled smugly at Dean if he knew that just thinking about their talk had helped his brother relax.  However, the catch 22 of thinking about no longer feeling his jittering nerves made Dean’s heart pick up the pace again as he bounced on the balls of his feet in front of the doors.  Before they even had a chance to slide open completely, Dean was already off and running up the closest escalators towards gate D25 and his plane beyond.

 

* * *

 

 _‘18A. 18A.  18A.’_ Dean repeated his seat number over to himself as he waited on the jet bridge to board.  Charlie had helped him pick his seats when he’d ordered the tickets online and he could hear her reassuring words echoing in his head now.  _“Over the wing.  Near the exit row.  Aisle seat for easy bailing.  Not really near a bathroom though, so don’t blow chunks on the unfortunate sap sitting next to you.”_ So maybe his friend didn’t have the best tact when it came to these things, but her candidness was calming in its own way. Dean shifted the handle of his guitar case and glanced down again at the ticket held tightly in his fist. He knew his seat assignment – hell, it was practically burned into his retinas at this point – but it didn’t hurt to check again.

Dean glanced away, taking in the flight attendant tucked into the galley and welcoming people onto the plane; he checked the ticket. 

The line of people waiting to board shifted forward and Dean now had one foot on the plane and one still resting on the jet bridge.  He stared hard at the bald patch of the businessman in front of him, tracing the wisps of hair with his eyes.

He ducked his head. Checked the ticket. Again.

 _‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’_ Dean’s inner monologue chided, the voice still sounding suspiciously like Sam.  Dean crumpled the ticket in his fist and shoved it deep into his jacket pocket. He kept his head bent as he took a few shuffled steps forward and completely on to the plane. The line of passengers halted again and Dean was left standing awkwardly next to American Airlines’ Bubbliest Crewmember.

“Good afternoon, sir! How are you today? I’m Becky and I’ll be one of your flight attendants on our way to New York.  If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask!” She chirped at him.

Dean lifted his head enough to make eye contact with the red dotted scarf tied loosely around her neck, lifting his eyebrows and quickly forcing a small smile that sat awkwardly on the edge of his mouth.  It was all the acknowledgment he could really muster at this point.

“Sir, if you’d like, I would be happy to stow your guitar in one of our large storage compartments in the cabin and you could collect it after the duration of our flight.”  Dean could almost hear the manic smile in her voice. Her words were probably more of a polite demand than a suggestion, but Dean just tightened his grip on the handle of the case and shuffled forward again.  He worried momentarily that maybe she would stop him, demand he give over his case, laugh at him for being so attached when he couldn’t even pull the instrument out during the flight.  What difference would it make if it was stowed a foot above his head or on the other side of the plane?  When the flight inevitably crashed into a lake, did he intend to use it as a flotation device? 

But when Dean glanced nervously over his shoulder, Becky the flight attendant had already moved on to greeting the next few passengers, giddy eyes abnormally wide. 

The mantra of _18A 18A 18A_ started sliding through Dean’s brain again as he watched the seat numbers pass.  He tried to match his breathing to his thoughts as Sam had suggested, but they slipped by too quickly and his breath was coming short again.  He just needed to get to his seat.  Get to his seat and get buckled in.

Mercifully, the plane seemed only about half full despite Dean’s late boarding and the milling queue he had been stuck in on the jet bridge had all but dispersed.  Maybe he’d even get the two seats on his side of the aisle to himself.  _18A.  18A. 18A—_

18A. Bingo.  Halle-friggin’-lujah.

There was only a moment to register a dark haired man already tucked into the seat next to the window before Dean was haphazardly shoving his carry-ons into the overhead bin. He threw himself down into the small seat and just as quickly did an awkward half-jump up again. Bending over and scrabbling for the seatbelt he’d just inadvertently sat on, Dean bumped his forehead on the seat in front of him, rough fabric of the headrest scratching at his skin. Somewhere in Dean’s brain, he registered distractedly an irritated noise from the person he’d jostled. He didn’t really have it in him to care though, as he pulled the belt across his lap quickly. Dean tried to relax his stiff shoulders when he heard the faint click of the buckle falling in place.

It didn’t work. Body held tense against the uncomfortable seat back, Dean wrapped his hands around the cool metal in his lap.  He tried to use the feeling to ground himself, to focus only on the chill seeping in through his fingertips.  This seatbelt would keep him safe.  This tiny piece of metal and thin strap of fabric were here to keep Dean Winchester safe in case of an emergency.  An emergency during his flight.  A flight that took place thousands of feet in the air in a metal tube in a storm that had already delayed his flight an hour and a half. 

He was going to be sick.

Eyes squeezed shut and fingers still gripping the belt, Inner Badass Dean flipped on the internal overhead intercom of his brain.  _‘Alright, Winchester, we’re done with all this namby pamby afraid-to-fly bull.  You’re gonna slow your breathing, stow your crap, and hum some friggin’ Metallica, because that’s the way we Winchesters… we Winchesters…”_ A small, uneven clicking sound broke through Dean’s thoughts.  It wasn’t far from his left ear and though quiet, the sound was foreign enough to cut through his adamant thoughts.  It was like something rough tapping the edge of a coffee mug, running along the lip of it before falling in. 

Not to be outdone, the loudspeaker of his mind kicked up the fervency a few notches.  _‘Look, I know this sucks.  I know it’d be easier to be on the ground, driving to New York like any other sane person, but you have to do this to make your flight to London.  You gotta suck it up and push through, because that’s what we Winchesters do.  Soon as you get on board with that, the ride will be a lot smoother and—“_

The voice in Dean’s head cut off abruptly as again the tapping caught his attention – that and the inexplicable heavy feeling of being watched.  He tried again to focus on that small force inside his mind, but his thoughts kept cutting out and repeating like skipping lyrics from a damaged record. The itch of someone’s gaze was a physical touch on the side of his face and no matter how loud he sang _Some Kind of Monster_ in his head, that quiet, uneven scraping sank further into his subconscious.

Cracking open his left eye, Dean found the source of the uncomfortable weight.  Sure enough, the man seated beside him was no longer watching out the window, but instead staring unabashedly at Dean.  There was a miniature candy cane tucked between his chapped lips and as Dean watched, he knocked the candy from one corner of his mouth to the other.  He could hear the _click-click-scrape_ as it shifted across his teeth with his tongue. 

“Hey Norman Bates, you mind?” Dean rolled his eye shut again and readjusted his grip on the seatbelt. _Creep._

The guy didn’t respond and this itched under Dean’s skin.

“I’d say take a picture, it’d last longer,” He spat, “but I’d rather you not have my handsome face in your _special time_ stash.”

“My apologies,” the man finally responded around the candy cane held in his teeth.  “I hadn’t realized my unobtrusive and silent attention would cause you so much discomfort.”

The man’s low voice seemed almost, but not quite entirely, devoid of emotion. There was just enough gruff sarcasm poised around those words, however, to make Dean drop his head down from the headrest and glance back towards his seatmate.  He had turned his head away from Dean now, facing the seat in front of him stiffly.  The man was all messy dark hair and 5 o’clock shadow and as lightning struck in the distance, his silhouette was lit briefly in the dim cabin light. Dean felt thunder rumble against the plane and his heart jumped in his chest. 

“Now who’s the source of inappropriate staring?”  Dean rolled his eyes at the taunt, but was interrupted before he could respond. “I was only watching you as I couldn’t tell if you needed assistance.  You looked like you were in pain.  Or wrestling with some sort of inner motivational monologue.”

With that, the stranger’s sharp eyes fell back on Dean, though his head didn’t shift from facing forward. Feeling trapped in the look and the accurate assumption, Dean colored and rubbed the back of his neck with a sweaty palm. 

“Astute observation, Colombo,” Dean scoffed.  “Best that you didn’t though.  Wouldn’t want to bother Little Miss Sunshine up there.  I’m fine.”

 As if on cue, Dean felt more than heard the front door to the aircraft close.  Slamming his head against the headrest as he felt the plane lurch backwards, Dean’s hands flew from the belt to the armrests.  He gripped them so tight his knuckles went white in seconds and the pressure on his nails where they pressed into the solid plastic made them ache. He didn’t care. He didn’t care that it hurt.  He didn’t care that his arm was brushing against something soft and warm.  Hell, he didn’t even care that he couldn’t make out the safety instructions being enthusiastically delivered by Flight Attendant Becky.  They were all going to die in this big, stupid machine anyway. 

Vaguely, he thought he heard the man next to him speaking, but it could have just been the blood pounding in his ears, could have been the thunder rolling over them. 

Absurdly, through the haze of his racing mind Dean could still hear the quiet _click-scrape_ of the miniature candy cane.  As jumbled words rushed through his senses, a few held and twisted into intelligible thoughts, mooring themselves to the sound like small boats to a dock on choppy water.  Understanding them – forming something comprehensible – felt like standing at the helm of his mind.  _‘You’re okay.’  ‘Nothing’s wrong.’  ‘It’s normal.’_ _‘Safe.’  ‘Breathe.’_ Every word Dean could catch gave him some semblance of control. 

But then the sound was gone, and his mind just a rushing river.

“–ean?  Dean?  Hello, Dean?” 

Through the whirlwind kicked up in his mind, Dean thought he could hear someone quietly calling his name. _‘Great,’_ Dean thought sarcastically to himself, _‘After everything, this is where I finally lose it.’_

But now there were long fingers gingerly pressed against his own, plucking at his digits cautiously. Without thought of action, Dean let go of the armrest gradually and let his left hand be guided away. He kept his eyes closed, but could feel as his fingers were wrapped around the other man’s wrist and held there. In any other situation, Dean would have registered this as about an 11 on the Weird Shit Done by Strangers scale, but he was desperate and the warm skin was already starting to ground him. The pads of his fingertips rested against the man’s pulse point.  Suddenly, he was aware how hard his own heart was hammering. The steady strum of the other man’s heart gave him something to focus on, something to time his breathing.

Slowly, _slowly,_ Dean calmed.  In the growing quiet, he could hear faint singing. 

 

> _“Oh the city snow makes your brown eyes shine_  
>  _We've gotta look real hard to find a reason to cry_  
>  _New York, New York is a friend of the traveling kind”_

Dean’s eyes flew open and he gaped at the man whose wrist he was holding.  His blue eyes were stained glass and his wild hair haloed from the small light that shone above them.  The main lights of the cabin had been turned off and the two of them sat facing each other, barely illuminated.  Dean mirrored the man’s deep breath.  The stranger sang again quietly:

 

> _“And I'm coming around from years of hard times_  
>  _He's chased me down through the towns and the miles_  
>  _Once stilled by love he was bound to roll on by”_

“Wha–?  How did you–?”   Finally, Dean was calm enough to speak.  Coherent sentences were something else entirely.

The man shrugged and popped the remnants of his candy cane into his mouth.  “You were starting to hyperventilate and needed to calm down before you had a full blown panic attack.  Physical cues for slowing heart rate and breathing are found to help.” 

“No, but the song… How did you–“ Dean trailed off helplessly. 

“I’m a pilot.  I find singing helps distract me when I’m nerv—“

“No, man.  I mean, how do you know _that_ song?”  Dean shook the last of the fog from his head and focused on his own personal Twilight Zone. “That’s _my_ song, dude.  I wrote it.  Oh, and on top of that, how the _hell_ do you know my name?”

At that, the blue-eyed pilot colored, dipping his chin and dropping his wrist from Dean’s grasp.  To his surprise, Dean missed the warmth under his fingertips.

“I apologize if I was presumptuous,” He spoke into his lap and then glanced back at Dean.

“You didn’t answer my questions there, buddy.”

The man remained quiet as he searched Dean’s face. Slowly, he tilted his head to the side in confusion.  The motion was so bizarrely out of place that Dean would have laughed if he hadn’t been so weirded out. 

“I heard you on the radio,” He finally responded as if the answer was so obvious he couldn’t understand why Dean was even asking. “Plus I saw you play in San Antonio a few weeks ago.  I recognized you when you sat down.” 

Dean _had_ finished up a tour through the southern United States just before he had driven to San Jose for Christmas and San Antonio _had_ been one of the last shows he played.  He didn’t remember much of it; he told people he was exhausted from the Sex, Drugs, and Rock ‘n Roll lifestyle.  In all honestly, it was the back-to-back gigs and lack of a good night’s rest.  Most of South Texas had been a blur, Dean champing at the bit to finish up and collapse into the heavenly cloud that was Sam and Jess’s guest bed – even if it meant sharing with Charlie, the blanket thief. 

Either way, Dean knew a few of his songs were starting to get radio play on the college stations and even if he hadn’t seen Blue Eyes there at the show, it didn’t mean his story didn’t check out. A smirk fell across Dean’s lips, but before he had chance to comment on his current luck, something through the window caught his eye. 

“Hey, hold up.  We’re not moving.” 

The man next to him shook his head. Dean waited a beat, but when no further explanation came he gestured with his hand a few times to get him to continue. 

“We stopped taxiing shortly after you started having difficulty breathing.  I tried to inform you, but it seems you weren’t able to hear me.”

Dean rolled his eyes and shrank slightly in his seat. It wasn’t _his_ fault if his brain had been too busy doing its best impression of the Death Star post-Red Five’s lucky shot for him to notice.

Before he could ask why they had stopped, the familiar chime of the intercom system bounced through the cabin. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and again welcome aboard Flight 64 with service to New York JFK.” Becky’s grating enthusiasm came through clear even on the scratchy speakers. “Unfortunately, it seems this pesky storm we’re having here in the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex is causing a bit of a back up at the Tower.  It seems we’re just going to have a short wait here on the tarmac and then we’ll be on our way.  We’ll be up above those clouds before you know it.” 

Becky’s voice clicked off and the plane was quiet again.

Well, _shit._

 

* * *

“I know there is a deck of cards in here somewhere.” Dean watched the man next to him sift through a dark blue backpack on his lap.  It had the word NOVAK embroidered above a small pair of wings and Dean traced the threads idly with his eyes.

They had been grounded on the tarmac for an hour now, the rain still falling heavily against the small port windows. The two had spent their time casually discussing their careers – Novak was a pilot in the Air Force and was living in San Antonio; Dean a musician out of Chicago heading for his first tour in Europe – and Dean found himself not really minding the delay. Whether or not the close proximity of a certain handsome pilot was affecting his improved mood, Dean found he didn’t really care. 

With a quiet noise of triumph, Novak pulled a deck of cards from the depths of his bag and then consequently dropped it right back inside and pulled the zipper quickly.  “Uh, never mind.  Maybe playing blackjack isn’t the most suitable way for us to pass the time.” The man shifted awkwardly in his seat and Dean let a lazy smirk fall across his lips.

“Come on, buddy, what else have we got to do? You’ve got cards. Let’s play ‘em.” Dean made a movement to grab the bag, but he was too slow. 

“You see,” Blue Eyes started awkwardly. “My brother.  Gabriel.  He uh, sometimes likes to play practical jokes.  It seems he felt the need to switch my standard deck out with something more suitable to his… personal tastes.” 

Dean just stared blankly and waited. He could play this game. He had a little brother.

After a moment of petulant staring, the other man again pulled the deck of cards from his bag and tossed them down on the tray table.  Dean couldn’t help but drop his head back and laugh guiltily. 

“Really?  This is what you’re embarrassed about?”  Dean held up the pack.  In large block letters, the top card on the deck read _THE FORCES’ FAVOURITES_ and showed the painting of a redheaded woman wearing nothing but a coy smile.  As he flipped through the deck, Dean raised his eyebrows in appreciation at the different pinup girls.  He’d seen decks similar to these over the years.  It seemed this pack was a throwback to the 40s; the kind of deck airmen in WWII would have had stashed in their gear. The paintings were all of classic beauties and, for being 52 portraits of scantily clad women, Dean thought it was overall pretty tasteful.

Glancing up again, Dean registered the discomfort on Novak’s face.  He started to deal the cards anyway.  “It’s no big deal, man.  Cards are cards. I’m still gonna beat your ass at blackjack, tits out or not.”

In light of Dean’s levity, Novak relaxed. They played hand after hand, only half concentrating on the game as they talked.  The plane was hushed now, so they kept their heads bent close and spoke just above a whisper. 

“When I was a kid, we spent a few months in San Antonio,” Dean commented as he shuffled the cards in his hand.  “My dad was a marine and he took my brother Sammy and me on base once to check out the old planes they had on display. Complicated suckers. Cars, I get.  But planes?  That’s a whole ‘nother story.”

The pilot gave Dean a knowing smile and crunched down on the perpetual candy cane.  “I could never get the hang of driving,” he told Dean.  “It’s too confining, too limited.  There’s total freedom in the air as long as you know what you’re doing.” 

He dug another candy out from his bag and added, “Besides, flying is much safer.”

Dean scoffed at the absurd comment, but let it slide. Getting into an argument about the merits of driving with a military pilot was probably not the best idea, especially after he had been kind enough to not make a fool out of Dean earlier.

“What’s with the tiny candy canes, man?” He asked instead.

“Another unfortunate example of my brother trying to be helpful.” 

Dean didn’t really understand how the man’s brother came into play here.  Was it some sort of bet to see how much stale Christmas candy he could eat?

Dean must have looked confused enough to urge Novak to continue.  “For Christmas, my twin sister, Hannah, asked me to give up smoking.  I agreed, but found it more difficult than I had initially assumed. Gabriel has an inappropriately excessive sweet tooth and donated an extra bag of miniature candy canes from his stash.  It seems he read an article that said sucking on hard candies can help with the oral fixation aspect of addiction.”

Dean gulped at the words _oral fixation_ and responded feebly, “Siblings, huh. What can you do?”

They finished the hand, Dean winning easily, and he dealt out the cards again.  They played in comfortable silence for a few minutes, just listening to the quiet shift of the cards and the dull hum of other passengers, before picking up the threads of conversation again.  Novak talked about how much he enjoyed being stationed in San Antonio, having the occasional opportunity to practice his Spanish.  He had considered being a linguist when he was younger and had even studied it in school, but after the first time he flew, the pilot knew he’d never leave the sky. 

Dean rambled on about his love of music after that. How he had started young, listening to his parents’ vinyl and how it shaped the music he played now – classic rock for his dad, blues and old country for his mom.  He started playing guitar when he was sixteen to impress a girl.  He couldn’t even remember her name now, but he still played that same guitar.  He wasn’t anyone famous – Novak chuckled lightly at that – but didn’t want to be.  Sam and his mom had been the first people he’d played for – Hey Jude, the song she’d always sang to him – and Dean just kept on playing after that to whatever audience would listen.

A small buzz from his pocket pulled Dean back from his reverie.  Suddenly he realized just how candid he was being with a virtual stranger and it made him shift uncomfortably.  He wasn’t sure what had come over him, but he was happy to blame it on the other guy’s unnerving stare.  Digging his phone out, Dean glanced at the screen for distraction.  There was group text waiting for him.

> **BENNY:**
> 
> _left you a late xmas present in your bag_
> 
> _check the pocket_
> 
> _& youre welcome. thank me by gettin back here safe_
> 
> **CHARLIE:**
> 
> _i left u smthn 2!!!_
> 
> _bet u my lghtsaber dean likes mine better_
> 
> _cuz lbr im the queen and i rule_
> 
> **BENNY:**
> 
> _regret that you will young padawan_
> 
> _youre on_
> 
> _& brother, dont drink it all before nyc_
> 
> _gotta last ya til london_

As he scrolled through the texts, Dean rolled his eyes.  Turning off the phone and hopping up from the seat, Dean dug his backpack out from where it was wedged behind his guitar case.  Novak looked at him again with that tilted expression. 

“Aha!” Dean announced triumphantly, flopping back down into the seat and holding up a Ziploc bag.  It was full of about ten travel sized bottles of Jack Daniels and—

“Is that a miniature car?” Novak asked, blues eyes almost lost in the intensity of his squint.

Dean chuckled as he pulled the toy car from the bag. It was a tiny replica of the Impala, sleek and black and perfectly painted.  “This is my car.  Well, not _this_ , but it’s a replica of it. I guess Charlie wanted me to have my baby around even when I was flying.” 

Dean fondly pushed it across the tray table, wheels rolling smoothly, until he realized with a start that he was a grown man playing with a toy car.  He grabbed the bag of booze like a desperate grasp at adulthood.

Cracking open the seal and holding out the plastic bottle, Dean raised his eyebrows and smirked. Novak took it unquestioningly.

“Forget waiting ‘til New York, right? Let’s drink, Blue Eyes.” Dean knocked his own bottle against Novak’s with a wink and they both tipped them back.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Becky force a nervous smile. 

 

* * *

 

 

It had been two hours since Flight 64 had boarded and the plane was still parked somewhere out on the tarmac.  The rain had slowed slightly, but still Dean could hear the rumble of thunder punctuating the conversation with his seatmate. He found he didn’t mind though, the sound like the gravel in his pilot’s voice.  As he watched those slender fingers idly push the Impala around the tray table, avoiding empty travel bottles of whiskey like they were traffic cones, Dean wondered when “ _the”_ pilot had shifted to “ _his”_ pilot. Maybe it had been the way Novak had sincerely congratulated Dean on his brother’s wedding, holding his gaze and looking so happy for someone he didn’t even know.  Maybe it had been the way the pilot smiled as he told Dean about the drum kit his mom had surprised him with when he was ten – his dad had walked around with cotton stuffed in his ears for a week, he’d added with a rough chuckle.  Or maybe it had been the way his eyes sparked in the dull light each time lightning struck outside.  

Maybe it had just been inevitable.

With seats reclined and both pairs of eyes watching the tiny Impala, the two men languished in the relaxing haze from the whiskey and the storm.  They shared the armrest now, shoulders and elbows touching lightly.  Dean could feel the slight shift in the other man’s arm as he rolled the car back and forth.  Every few minutes, their wrists bumped and Dean’s fingers would itch. It was distracting.

“I just don’t understand how they’re able to still make it work after so long.  Sure they complain incessantly, but who’s to say that isn’t love?”

Dean had only been half listening. They had been talking about everything and nothing really.  Somehow in Dean’s distraction, Blue Eyes had moved on to the topic of love. Dean closed his eyes, sunk closer, and tried to focus on the conversation. 

“My parents…” Novak paused as if weighing his next words, but then his tongue tripped forward.  “Well, not my biological parents; Hannah and I were adopted when we were infants.  But my adopted parents – my real parents – Ellen and Bobby, they’re just so stubborn. It’s like they’ve been daring each other into love for the last thirty years.  Like their marriage is this game they secretly love to play, but no one can know, because it will give the other too big of an advantage.”

Dean listened to the winding sentences of his pilot, his speech and his muscles liquor-loosened. 

“My parents tried to make it work. At least, my mom did. For a while.  I guess, at some point she just realized that whatever they’d had as kids just wasn’t enough.”  If he kept his eyes shut, Dean could almost pretend no one was listening.  Somewhere in him, though, he was a little happy to know someone was.  “Sometimes, having loved someone just isn’t enough to cut it.  Maybe it had been before I was born, but after…”

Dean trailed into silence.  He felt Novak shift again slightly and Dean rested his head against the other’s shoulder.  After a few moments, he felt those long fingers run gently through his hair. Dean moved into the touch, grounded in the storm. 

“Dean, who’s Charlie?”

“My best friend,” he responded, voice soft as he started to drift.  “Well, more like the little sister I never knew I wanted.”

Novak hummed a small noise of acknowledgement and the two fell quiet again. 

After a pause, his pilot's mind seemed to circle back again.  “I’ll never marry,” he said in hushed sincerity.  “My heart is in the clouds.”

Dean was chasing sleep now and wondered what his pilot would look like in the sky.  He could almost see him, wings spread, dipping in the sunlight. He wore a smile that seemed to say he’d never come back down to Earth. 

“I’m too clumsy, man,” Dean breathed out a mumble. “I broke the wings of the loves I’ve found.” 

Just as the dreams overtook him, Dean felt fingers slip between his own, felt them squeeze gently.  Then he was gone, flying. 

 

* * *

 

“Dean.  Dean, wake up.”

Dean felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. He shifted up in his seat, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and looking at his pilot with a dazed expression.  It took him a moment to remember where he was – what he had said – and Dean’s heart gave a painful thump in his chest.

Almost with a crash, the fog cleared. The cabin lights were all on now and passengers shifted in their seats as they gathered their bags. Confused, Dean leaned across the other man to stare out the window.  The light around him pressed against the night outside, but Dean could at least tell in the dark the storm had passed. 

“Wait, what’s goin’ on?  Why are we getting off if the storm’s gone? Shouldn’t we be taking off?” Dean asked.

The other man leveled a look at Dean, amusement sitting at one upturned corner of his mouth.  “Dean, we did.”

Dean could only stare right back, silent and royally confused.

“We just landed a few minutes ago. You slept through the flight.”

How was that even possible?  Dean Winchester – Mr. Terrified-of-Flying, Mr. I-Can’t-Friggin’-Do-This, Mr. Why-Can’t-I-Just-Drive-To-London-Sammy – had slept through the entire flight to New York.  He had made it through and there was only one possible explanation.   Said explanation was now watching him with careful eyes, squinting slightly.  Gratitude caught in Dean’s throat and he smiled guiltily. Novak only nodded back and reached down for the backpack at his feet. 

Still feeling fuzzy with sleep, Dean watched his pilot collect his things and pull something from the seat pocket. When he straightened again, the Impala sat as an offering in Novak’s open palm.  Dean shook his head.

“Keep it, man,” he said, amused smile playing across his face.  He knew it was probably just a silly toy to him, but for some reason Dean needed him to take it. After all was said and done, Dean wanted his pilot to have a reminder that what they had shared during the storm was something worth giving. 

“Thank you, Dean.”  The honesty that shone in his words and his eyes made Dean look away.

In the stark light of the cabin, Dean found he was a coward to his emotions again.  He slipped his phone out and clicked it on, if only for a petty distraction. Dean’s eyes lingered idly on the screen, tracing the slim numbers of the clock for a moment before something in his mind slotted roughly into place and he cursed.  

“Shit!”  He yelped, hopping up and maneuvering around the other passengers to get his own bags down.  He dumped the battered guitar case on his seat and swung his backpack onto his shoulders. Novak watched his movements, head tilted curiously.  “My connection boards in forty five friggin’ minutes.  I don’t know if I’m gonna make my flight to London.”

“Like hell you will.”

With that, the line of passengers miraculously began to give way and Dean’s pilot was on his feet and moving.  One hand threw his bag over his shoulder and with the other, he grabbed Dean by the upper arm and practically dragged him off the plane.  Eventually Dean shook the sleep off enough to get his feet under him and the two men took off running up the jet bridge, feet pounding on the unstable floor. 

They hit the yawning expanse of the terminal at a sprint and Dean felt Novak’s hand fall from his shoulder.  He hadn’t noticed, as he rounded the seats at the gate they exited from, that it was only one pair of boots that echoed through the space now. 

He slid to a halt when he heard someone hesitantly call his name.  “Dean, wait!”

Turning back, he realized he’d left his pilot behind. He stood a few yards back by the empty gate desk, hands dangling uselessly at his sides.  Dean thought he almost looked lost.

“Castiel,” The man called haltingly. “My name is Castiel.”

Dean would like to say, after all of it, that he took into consideration missing his flight, that he worried about what he was doing and what consequences could come of it. 

But he didn’t.  Not for a second.  Fleetingly, the words ‘ _fuck it’_ passed through his mind and he ran back towards his pilot, towards Castiel.

He didn’t pause, didn’t slow, didn’t wait to see if he’d get another one of those rare half-smiles.  Instead, he was crashing into the other man, gathering up that lost look in his hands.  He rested his palms lightly on the sides of Castiel’s face and it was only then that he let himself pause for a moment.  Dean rubbed a thumb against the scruff of his pilot’s cheek and gently knocked their foreheads together. 

He whistled lightly under his breath. “That’s a helluva name, Cas.”

Dean caught Cas’s chuckle with his lips. He snaked one arm down and around Castiel’s shoulder, pulling him impossibly close, and pressed deep into the kiss. As their lips parted, Dean’s senses savored the flood of whiskey and candy canes.  Castiel tasted like Christmas and smelled like the storm they’d watched from the window.  Maybe Dean had slept through the flight, but he felt caught up in the air now. As they kissed, Dean’s only thought was ‘ _if this is what it feels like to fly, I know why Cas never wants to come back down’._

Too quickly Cas was grounding him again, pressing his palms lightly against Dean’s chest and pulling away.  Dean kept his eyes closed for a breath, sure when he opened them he’d see the Earth spread out far below him.  Cas wrapped one hand around Dean’s neck and called his name again quietly.  Dean looked into the sky of Castiel’s eyes and sighed.  He knew without his pilot saying it: he had to go, had a flight to catch, had to make it to London.  He had to say goodbye. 

He stole one last kiss, a brief brush of lips.

“I’ll watch for you wings, Cas.”  Dean winked and turned away. 

He hitched his backpack up higher, if only for something to do with his hands, and sped up into a jog.  He tried to resist the urge to look back, kept his eyes trained forward as long as he could.  He knew he wouldn’t have to the willpower to leave Cas twice.

When he finally gave in and turned, his pilot was lost in the crowd. 

 

Dean ran to make his flight. 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! There may be more to come of this AU in the future, but I'm not sure yet. Lastly, a big ol' thank you and smooches to [Vic](http://hisroyalhellishness.tumblr.com) for being an understanding and patient beta as well as listening to my late night insecurities about writing legitimate fic for the first time.


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